Page 108 of The Last Guy On Earth
I’d never been “the one” for anybody, certainly not a catch like Clay. I hadn’t understood that what we had together was rare.
Clay groans, then pulls out of my mouth. He flips his body with the grace of an Olympic swimmer and kisses me deeply. My hand fumbles between our bodies, taking both of us in hand.
He nips my lower lip, and I stroke us toward the finish line.
“Baby,” I gasp, because his blue eyes are closed, and I need to see them.
His bright gaze flips onto mine.
“I love you,” I say to him for the first time in my life.
“Fuck,” he says artfully.
Then we smash our mouths together and come all over the expensive hotel bedding.
FORTY-EIGHT
Clay
I wakeup pancaked against Jethro’s back.
Unlike last time, I don’t panic. I kiss him between the shoulder blades.
“Sleeping,” he mumbles, and I grin.
Adjusting my neck on the pillow, I tangle our feet together. Then I watch his back rise and fall as he snoozes on.
I love you, he’d said last night. I hadn’t had the spare brain cells to say it back, but we both know I feel the same way.
For a few moments I revisit my favorite daydream where we win the Cup, Jethro retires, and I get to have everything I ever wanted—an epic career victory and the love of my life.
But of course, the reality is that we could lose. And win or lose, Jethro might want to finish his contract. Another season would be worth millions to his bank account.
My happy ending would require sacrifice on his part, and that sucks. But I can’t help dreaming about it.
In my defense, it’s early and I’m in bed with a man I’ve loved for over fifteen years. Also, he’s naked.
Jethro rolls onto his back suddenly. “It got loud in here.”
“What?”
He glances over at me with sleepy eyes. “I can hear how loud you’re thinking.”
“Only about ordering coffee. How about an omelet? Should I get room service?”
He thinks about it. “Pancakes,” he says. “Two eggs, two pancakes, and bacon. With maple syrup.”
I rub my bare belly. “I like this idea. Coffee?”
“Am I breathing?”
I start to slide out of the bed, but he catches my hand in his.
“I’m taking it as a good sign that you want to have breakfast,” he says. “Last time you lit out of the bed like your ass was on fire.”
With my thumb, I rub the backs of his fingers. “Nothing got easier since then.”
“I know,” he agrees.
